


(There's a Beautiful, Beautiful Field) Far Away in a Land That Is Fair

by orphan_account



Series: Be Seeing You [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Angst, M/M, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel escapes Ohio for the bright lights of Paris, but when the Wehrmacht invades France, Kurt flees to the dubious safety of London. There he meets another American, Noah Puckerman, who is flying with the RAF in the name of vengeance on the Nazis. They share a handful of days together at Christmas, until the war calls Noah away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(There's a Beautiful, Beautiful Field) Far Away in a Land That Is Fair

The Jar O’Nails is wearing holiday finery in honor of the season. The staff worked hard on the paper chains of red and green, and someone managed to find an abundance of greenery to swath the mirror over the bar of the underground club in Chelsea. Kurt Hummel appreciates the attempt at holiday cheer but he finds that he misses the lights. Paris had lights, but at present, Paris doesn’t have much of anything. Ohio still has lights, no doubt, and for a brief instant, Kurt feels an overwhelming pang of homesickness for the place he hasn’t seen in years.

His bridges are well burnt however, and even if he wanted to go back, he has no way to get there. Not with civilian air traffic suspended and U-boats prowling the sea-lanes separating Britain from America.

Kurt refuses to dwell on that because looming tears will tighten his throat and make it impossible for him to sing. He does some breathing exercises, filling his lungs to capacity and flexing his diaphragm before letting the air out.

The club patrons give him a scattered round of applause as he enters the room and moves to the makeshift stage. The rest of the band is already there, although a string bass and a piano barely qualify as a band. Kurt sometimes pretends that the entire Glenn Miller Orchestra backs up his voice. Or that he’s still in Paris, wearing a cutaway jacket with tails and sharply creased pants, instead of a broadcloth shirt and pants that need suspenders to stay up. His shoes are highly polished and he’s dressed as stylishly as he can manage under the circumstances. He’s lucky to have any employment at all, a refugee as he is, so he doesn’t complain about the tattiness of the décor or the poor lighting.

Normally, a place like this would cater to the avant-garde artists or the children of the very rich with nothing to do with their lives other than to sink into decadence. With the siege mentality overtaking the city, many class barriers have dropped and everyone wants to find a party to make the fear go away.

The crowd isn’t heavy yet, although within the hour, they will be packed in there. At the moment, there’s a few older gentlemen who come in every night to nurse their ales for hours, a few tired looking women, and in the corner with his back to the wall and a clear view of the whole room is an RAF pilot wearing the insignia of an Eagle Squadron. Given the unit, Kurt presumes the man must be a fellow countryman. He’s slept with enough soldiers over the past few months to become acquainted with their devices. Besides, the man has a general look of well being about him that none of the Brits, or even Kurt, can mimic, having been under assault from the air for so many months at this point.

Wrapping his hand around the heavy microphone, he nods to the band and then breaks into Vera Lynn’s rendition of _The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot_. It’s an incredibly depressing song, but makes his British audience happy when he sings one of their own.

 _He's the little boy that Santa Claus forgot,  
And goodness knows, he didn't want a lot.  
He sent a note to Santa  
For some soldiers and a drum,  
It broke his little heart  
When he found Santa hadn't come._

He feels like that boy sometimes – far from home, disconnected from anyone who loves him. Santa Claus will never find him in the depths of London under siege.

The flyboy in the corner stares at Kurt with hungry eyes, and Kurt knows he’s found his bed partner for the evening. Since arriving in London nearly a year ago, he’s made a career of seducing soldiers on the eve of battle. He gives them a warm body and an uncomplicated encounter that they can remember fondly as they step into danger.

Usually Kurt has to gently and carefully lead the straight boys into his bed, reassuring them the whole way that sleeping with him is practically like sleeping with a woman. He lubricates himself and discretely opens his body to give them the illusion that they are with a girl. Afterward, he has to reassure them that fucking him didn’t make them homosexual. And there hasn’t been a one of them that he ever thought about seeing again.

He likes the game though. He gets points when he convinces them to let down their defenses. Sometimes, Kurt almost feels like it makes up for years of slurs and disdain. He justifies his actions with the thought that he comforted them before they had to face down Hitler’s troops.

But this RAF flyer gazes at him with challenges in his eyes, as though Kurt would be the one to retreat from their encounter. Kurt throws it back at him, not bothering to disguise his interest.

When the set ends, Kurt decides it’s time to reel the prey in to make sure he doesn’t escape before Kurt has a chance to invite the man back to his flat. He makes for the bar where his usual cup of tea is steaming in the slightly chilly air.

He turns slightly so that he has a clear sight of the RAF pilot. Kurt sips his tea and then makes a face.

“I believe I’ve made my requirements for my tea perfectly clear,” Kurt says, his voice at it’s most haughty. “Steeped exactly thirteen minutes. This is clearly too weak.”

Mort just shakes his head and pulls out a new cup. He’s used to Kurt’s behavior and doesn’t blink an eye at it any more. Kurt drums his fingers on the bar and waits for the man with the hungry eyes to take the bait. He senses movement beside him and ducks his head to hide his triumphant smile.

“Pretty demanding, aren’t you, princess?” the man comments, his accent betraying him as Kurt’s countryman even more than his demeanor.

But Kurt finds himself too tired to go through with his usual charade. Just once, he’d like to meet someone he didn’t have to pretend with.

He snaps, “I’m not a girl!”

He fully expects the man to retreat, but instead he gives Kurt a long slow look and then licks his lips.

“I can see that.”

Startled, Kurt stares for a moment and then recovers his manners. He holds out his hand, “Kurt Hummel,” he says, his voice more clipped and precise than usual.

The man stares at him for a moment, and doesn’t take his hand. “That’s a German name.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “My family has lived in Ohio since before it was ever a state. I’m just as American as you are.”

“Ohio, huh?” the man says, finally shaking Kurt’s hand. “Noah Puckerman.”

With a glance at the man’s shoulder insignia, Kurt responds, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Flying Officer Puckerman.”

“Most people call me Puck.”

“Shakespeare’s most famous fairy?”

Puckerman shrugs and doesn’t bridle at the fairy reference. Kurt is more intrigued, and starting to feel hopeful that he won’t have to play any games with this man.

“I caused a lot of mischief when I was little, so my mother said I was like him.”

Kurt can only imagine that terror that this man must have invoked in his poor naïve mother.

“I have to get back on stage,” Kurt says.

“I’ll be here.”

Puckerman gives him a heated look that actually makes Kurt blush. He didn’t think he could do that any more. He enjoys being pursued for once, so he decides that he’s not about to make it easy for Puckerman to get him into bed. It’s been too long since Kurt’s been the object of a seduction.

He picks up the microphone and starts _I Get a Kick out of You_. He sings it to every patron of the pub, catching various eyes and winking, flirting with his audience.

 _I get no kick in a plane  
Flying too high with some guy in the sky  
Is my idea of nothing to do_

Kurt looks directly at Puckerman when he sings those lines, putting a teasing sneer on his face. Puckerman raises an eyebrow but smirks at him.

When his last set ends, Kurt totally ignores the RAF officer and takes his cup of tea to one of the tables. The band keeps playing and several couples dance slowly in the limited space. Kurt traces a finger around the lip of his cup, feeling the earlier melancholy creeping back over him. Maybe it’s the holiday season, maybe it’s talking to another American, but Kurt suddenly wishes he could go home.

The band starts playing _That Old Feeling_. A hand tugs Kurt’s fingers away from the cup. Kurt looks up to find Flying Officer Puckerman pulling him out of his chair.

“Dance with me.”

“But . . . we can’t,” Kurt flounders.

“No one cares,” Puckerman insists, leading Kurt to the small area in front of the musicians. “We could all die tomorrow.”

He pulls Kurt into a loose embrace, wrapping their fingers together and resting his other hand on Kurt’s back just above his waist. He maintains enough distance between the two of them that not even the nuns at a Catholic girls’ school could object. Kurt’s gaze darts around nervously, but none of the patrons in the club seem upset. Most are watching them with indulgent smiles. Perhaps Kurt has earned their forbearance for his singing to them most every night. Or maybe, with Christmas two days away, some of the holiday cheer has found its way to this dismal little bar in the blackness of London. Or it could be a side effect of the war, the camaraderie of people who could die at any moment. For whatever reason, not one person seems to object to the two of them dancing together.

Kurt’s stiff posture gradually relaxes. He begins to enjoy the music and the feel of hard muscles under his fingers. Puckerman seems to take it as a sign to intensify their dance because he tightens his arm, bringing Kurt in closer. Their entangled fingers are caught between firm chests and their thighs brush as they move together. Puckerman rests his cheek against Kurt’s, his stubble scratching slightly.

Shaking a little with the knowledge that he’s going to be having sex with the man soon, Kurt decides that he can’t continue to call the man ‘Puckerman’ if they’re going to have intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies. And he refuses to call the man by the nickname his _mother_ bestowed on him.

“Noah,” he breathes in the man’s ear.

“Yeah?”

Kurt really hadn’t planned on saying anything; he was just trying the name out. Noah shifts his grip, aligning their bodies more closely. Kurt shudders as a delicate ripple of desire fans over his skin. Noah is solidly built, just a bit taller than Kurt. He seems sturdy and strong, and Kurt can easily imagine his hands on Kurt’s body.

Frantically trying to come up with a question, Kurt blurts out, “Why did my name bother you? Isn’t Puckerman a German name too?”

Noah tenses briefly and Kurt could kick himself for destroying the mood, but then he’s settled more firmly against the flyboy’s body. Kurt strokes the wool of the uniform, enjoying the stiff feel of it underneath his fingertips.

“Jewish,” Noah answers.

“What?” Kurt has lost the thread of his question in the feel of the starched and pressed uniform that’s cut to emphasize the hard lines of the body inside it.

“Puckerman is a Jewish name.”

“I see.” Realizing that their talk has become unaccountably serious, Kurt says, “I presume you’re not here for fun and adventure like the rest of the Yanks then?”

“My mother’s parents immigrated to Ohio from Cologne before she was born. We still have family back there, but none of them have been heard from since Kristallnacht. ”

Kurt winces. He’s heard far too many stories like this in the past year. “That’s awful.”

“I’ve been flying crop dusters through the Midwest, but there’s not a machine I can’t handle. So I came here to help. And strike a blow for my people.”

Noah’s tone has gone grim and Kurt recognizes a man bent on revenge when he hears it. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s afraid for Noah’s safety, knowing that if he gets shot down, his fate is likely to be much worse than that of other POWs. His fear annoys him – he has a non-involvement policy with these fighters, knowing it will never amount to anything and is doomed in any case. He rethinks his decision to sleep with the man, having a feeling of foreboding about the whole thing.

Lips drift across his ear, evoking another shuddery response. Kurt’s body is fighting hard with his common sense.

“Take me home with you tonight,” Noah says, his voice soft but demanding nonetheless. “I’ll make you feel _so_ good.”

The temptation to let someone else work on his pleasure for once is too much. Kurt wants all of this pilot’s intensity focused on him, wants to know what it’s like to be the object of desire.

“I have a bedsit down the block.”

The fingers resting on his back clench and then drift slightly lower. Kurt fights back a dizzying wave of desire. Noah is aggressive and self-confident, and his attitude is driving Kurt insane with anticipation.

Turning so that his nose is buried in Kurt’s hair, Noah asks, “Does that mean yes?”

Knowing that he could move his head just a little bit and meet Noah’s lips makes Kurt slightly lightheaded. He doesn’t do it, not wanting to stretch the tolerance of their audience any further. Instead he rests his forehead on blue-grey worsted and inhales the scent of the military man, a mixture of sweat and saltpeter and machines.

“Yes,” he murmurs into Noah’s broad shoulder.

Noah disentangles their fingers and slides his hand around to cup Kurt’s head, tugging slightly on his hair to pull his head up. Hazel eyes search his, perhaps making sure he’s willing. Kurt rubs back against the hand like a cat, making a contented noise.

Noah smiles. “Do you have another set?”

“No, I’m free to go. Curfew is soon, anyway.”

“Get your coat.”

Noah steps back, giving a slight bow as though he was thanking Kurt for the dance as though they were back in some country club and he was a debutante. But country clubs don’t let in Jews, and Kurt will never be allowed to dance with the man of his dreams in a place like that.

Mort gets Kurt’s overcoat from the safe place behind the bar and gives it to Kurt, who settles it over his shoulders, doing up the buttons and ignoring the fine trembling in his hands brought on by excitement. The coat is a long, finely cut length of cashmere that he acquired in Paris. It keeps out the worst of the winds coming along the river from the North Sea, and still fits him as perfectly as the day that he was measured for it. It’s one of his more treasured possessions.

Noah drapes a soldier’s greatcoat over his shoulders, making them seem even broader. He waits for Kurt at the door to the club. They ascend the stairs, back to the street. Kurt turns to the left to traverse the short distance to his home.

They walk along the icy streets in silence. Kurt supposes that they’ve said all they really need to say – what comes next isn’t really anything other than a business transaction, just without the exchange of currency. They aren’t lovers, aren’t friends, not even acquaintances. Still, Noah’s accent adds to Kurt’s homesickness and he wishes that they meant something more to each other than warm bodies to use to forget their sorrows.

He turns into the alley leading to his room, and unlocks the gate to the yard. Noah is a presence looming in the darkness like a streak of heat in the chill of wintry London. The lock yields to the key, though the metal is icy in Kurt’s bare hand. The yard is shadowy with the lights of the city extinguished, but Kurt knows his way past the obstacles.

“Follow me,” he says softly, although no windows overlook the place.

His steps wind around a couple of clay planters and past the Triumph to the door, but Noah halts beside the canvas-draped motorcycle.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“My Triumph T80,” Kurt answers. His only real indulgence when he arrived the previous January from Paris. He is still American enough that he doesn’t feel comfortable without a vehicle. A car in London is impractical but the motorcycle suits him perfectly and doesn’t take up much of his petrol ration. He used up most of the remainder of his savings to buy it, but the Triumph allows him to have a job that he wouldn’t otherwise. The British government is strapped for personnel and having a courier route suits Kurt’s needs perfectly.

“A motorcycle,” he adds, in case Noah isn’t familiar with British brands.

“Sweet,” Noah murmurs, but then he’s against Kurt’s back, a line of heat and muscle that makes Kurt shudder in anticipation as he recalls what they’re about to do. His fingers suddenly feel hot as he works the key into the lock. They enter the small anteroom that connects his room to the hallway and the bathroom at the end. Kurt unlocks the door to his bedsit and Noah follows close on his heels as he enters his home.

Once they’re inside, Kurt doesn’t bother being seductive and coy, and allowing himself to be ‘caught’ making his prey feel all manly. Noah doesn’t seem to need any illusions about who he’s with, so Kurt strips off with alacrity, pausing only to hang his clothes in the press so they’ll keep a few more days. Noah doesn’t hesitate either, leaving his uniform in an untidy heap on the floor.

Kurt doesn’t waste any electricity behind the blackout curtains, but he lights a candle, just to see what kind of man is hidden under the wool. He isn’t disappointed – Noah’s body is solid with muscle, but he’s lean and not heavy. Seeing Kurt look at him, Noah steps back a pace and flexes, emphasizing the power of his arms and torso.

“On the bed, princess,” Noah orders.

Kurt doesn’t bother arguing this time. Between the dance and the walk, and now the sight of Noah’s nude body, Kurt is entirely ready to move things along. No sooner does he lie down than Noah is on him, heavy body blanketing Kurt’s and mouth possessing his with deep hungry kisses that give him no time to pause. Noah seems intent on pushing Kurt’s desires to the breaking point as fast as he can.

Pulling away from the kiss and leaving Kurt gasping and sweaty, Noah asks, “Where’s your lotion?”

Pushing Noah away slightly, Kurt rolls over and fumbles with a shoebox tucked under the bed. Handing Noah the glass bottle, Kurt settles amongst the pillows, ready to give instructions if the other man needs them. His suspicion that he won’t need to turn over so Noah can pretend that he’s a girl proves to be correct. He relaxes against the pillows, willing to turn his pleasure over to Noah’s competent hands, to surrender and allow himself to do nothing but feel.

Noah spreads Kurt’s legs and then with quick efficiency, spreads Kurt’s muscles open. He doesn’t need any direction, especially when Kurt whines and moans, eagerly pressing his body back against those invading fingers.

“Enough!” Kurt finally demands. “I’m ready.”

Looking up from his concentration on Kurt’s body with a smirk, Noah drips some of the lotion on himself and then presses Kurt’s knees back. Kurt goes with it, happy that he’s already flexible, because Noah has given no thought to stretching other muscles, like his thighs for instance.

But he forgets any notion of bitchiness when Noah enters him, heated steel sliding into his body. Noah settles into a rhythm that Kurt follows easily, rocking his hips up with each thrust. Noah reaches down and cups Kurt’s balls, rolling them in his fingers and squeezing, pleasure that’s just on the edge of pain. The sensations make Kurt crazy and he growls with the need to come, until Noah finally slides his hand up, loosely circling Kurt’s dick.

Keeping the rhythm of his hips steady, Noah strips Kurt’s dick in the same time as the movement of their pelvises. It’s been so long since a lover took care of him this way that Kurt struggles against the urge to come almost at once. Noah watches him with amusement in his eyes as Kurt battles against the instincts of his body. The skirmish is inevitably lost and Kurt’s resulting orgasm is all the more intense for having overcome his defenses.

Noah keeps moving, thrusting his hips as Kurt flails on the bed while the last of his climax ebbs away along his nerve endings. When Kurt has calmed again, Noah gets serious about finding his own pleasure, bending forward until Kurt’s legs are folded up against his torso to give himself a better angle to work. The flyboy sets a punishing rhythm, his cock reaching deep inside Kurt as his balls slap against Kurt’s ass.

Kurt watches his face, fascinated by the play of emotions across his tanned skin. At the very instant of his crisis, Noah eyes fly open and he locks his gaze with Kurt, who watches as the hazel eyes go blank even as his body is flooded with the heat of Noah’s release.

Slumping down over Kurt with exhaustion, Noah reaches over and pinches out the candle, drowning the room in darkness. Kurt eases his legs down, thinking that he’ll have to do some stretching in the morning to ward off the ache of overused muscles. He fully expects Noah to get up and leave once he’s regained his breath, but instead the other American makes himself comfortable on Kurt’s narrow bed, tugging Kurt until he’s held securely against warm muscles and lightly furred skin.

“That was amazing,” Kurt says. He thinks it’s good manners to compliment someone who just made him come so hard.

Noah snorts against his neck. “Yeah.”

“You don’t really seem like you’re gay, but you do to know how to pleasure another man.” Kurt doesn’t know why he’s angling for more information about the man’s past, but something about him has sparked Kurt’s curiosity.

“No, I’m no fag. I just like sex. I’m not too worried about the gender of my partners.”

“Some of us can’t be so fortunate in our preferences.”

Noah stretches lazily, throwing a heavily muscled leg over Kurt’s thigh. “I don’t see any reason to limit my options.”

“Practical,” Kurt murmurs.

Settling himself into the blankets, and tucking them in against the cold seeping around the curtains, Noah gives a yawn and turns his face away, clearly signaling that the conversation is over. Kurt lies awake a little longer before allowing his consciousness to drift away in the pleasant sensation of sharing a bed with someone.

Later in the night, Kurt comes awake, startled. He wonders if a raid is on, but straining his ears, can’t hear any sign of the sirens. Noah is wrapped around him, heavy leg pinning Kurt to the mattress. Kurt squirms his way out of the bed and goes to the window, trying to decide what woke him up or whether it was just the oddity of having someone sleeping with him.

Walking across the floor, he feels the evidence of his earlier activities oozing out of his entrance. Kurt smiles to himself at the feeling, stretching his arms up and cracking his back. He leans against the window, trickles of cold from the warped sash ghosting over his naked body leaving goose bumps behind. He still can’t hear anything, so he slowly pushes the blackout curtain to the side. There’s nothing out there other than the darkness of the slumbering city.

Kurt stares up at the stars in the clear cold sky and wonders if they can see them in Ohio . . . if his father thinks about him and where he might be. Whether Noah’s family knows that their son is out here alone seeking revenge on forces that he can’t control.

Arms encircle him from behind, startling Kurt out of his silent contemplation of the dark sky. He shivers a little as he’s pulled back against a strong chest and a cock that’s beginning to fill.

“What are you doing?” Noah asks against his ear.

“Just thinking,” Kurt says, not willing to share his homesick thoughts with this virtual stranger. “It’s the winter solstice, I think . . . the longest night of the year.”

“Mmm, yeah, Hanukah starts . . . tomorrow. Probably.” Noah’s lips move down the side of Kurt’s neck.

“Maybe the solstice was last night,” Kurt adds, but then he loses track what he was talking about when Noah nips at his shoulder.

Kurt forgets his contemplation of the sky when Noah puts a hand under his knee and lifts it on to the window ledge. He presses a hand between Kurt’s shoulder blades, tilting him forward. Hard flesh nudges at his hole and the breath goes out of him in a long gasp as Noah sinks into him, sliding easily in the previous deposit of fluids.

Noah takes his time, long deliberate strokes that let Kurt feel every bump and ridge of his cock. Kurt shudders, leaning more weight on his arms, feeling off balance because Noah hasn’t let go of his knee. He trembles as Noah pushes against his prostate, legs feeling weak and he wants to collapse, but Noah’s shaft inside him holds him in place. Kurt mewls, voice lost in the feelings of Noah taking him so slowly. Desire edges to the point of making him want to scream if he can’t find release, but Noah doesn’t seem inclined to give him a hand, holding them up as he is. Kurt shifts his weight again to get a hand free, pulling at his cock even as Noah speeds up his strokes, his hips pistoning into Kurt. Kurt wails as he comes, his over-stretched tissues clenching down on Noah’s invading prick.

Noah finally drops his leg and pulls out. Kurt slumps against the window frame, too wrung out to say anything. Noah picks up his hand and guides him back to bed. They settle again and the chill from the window gradually leaves Kurt’s body.

Small slivers of light edge the black curtains when Kurt opens his eyes again. He’s warmer than he ever has been since winter set in to London and he curls more tightly against Noah, who makes a disgusted noise and shoves at him.

“Ew, you stink. Wash up or something.”

Noah rolls over and sits up, scratching his chest.

“I gotta get going.”

He pulls his clothes on efficiently and walks out the door before Kurt can pull himself together enough to say goodbye. Kurt thinks indignantly that if he stinks, it’s Noah’s fault for making him disheveled and sweaty, not to mention come-stained.

He would like to sleep the day away, but he needs to report to his job as a courier. He pulls out a towel and heads down the hall, luckily finding the communal bathroom deserted. Kurt looks longingly at the tub, aching for a thorough soak, but he doesn’t have the time. He washes himself, careful of his sore muscles.

The day passes slowly, and although he is working a reduced shift, Kurt is grateful to be to have something to distract him. He picks up his ration coupon for petrol on the way home along with some beef mash and cheese from one of the little shops down the street. He digs into the warmth of the dish when he’s inside his flat, trying to keep his eyes from the bed. He knows he’s making too much of it, when all either of them wanted was a warm body and someone who felt like home. But Noah seems to have awakened something that Kurt has tried to kill off in himself, in the desperate fear that he won’t survive the conflict that he accidentally became embroiled in. He would fight if he could, just to tip the balance, but his efforts at enlisting were turned away when they discovered his flat feet. Most of the time, he doesn’t believe that he’ll ever see his home again, but meeting Noah makes him wish for it more fervently than he has since things in Europe became so dicey.

He digs out stubs of candles from the drawer and tries to remember what he knows about Hanukah. Kurt lines them up on the sideboard. Seven nights of lights . . . or is it eight?

He realizes that he’s woolgathering over a man he’s never going to see again and he turns away. Kurt chastises himself for even thinking about a repeat performance with the insensitive brute. He dresses in his tightest pants, determined to wash the memory of Noah Puckerman off his body with someone new. He heads out for the club, running over his set list in his mind.

At Jars O’Nails, Kurt puts an extra swivel in his hips and touches the heavy steel of the microphone delicately, warming it in his hand, cupping it as though he’s cupping flesh. He knows that his body language won’t be lost on the right person. He closes his eyes, swaying as he loses himself in the music. Kurt knows he looks delicious and he’s certain that someone will take the lure that he’s dropping.

 _I've got you under my skin.  
I've got you deep in the heart of me.  
So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me.  
I've got you under my skin.  
I'd tried so not to give in._

When he finishes _I’ve Got You under My Skin_ he opens his eyes, ready to find his partner for the night. Instead, Kurt encounters a familiar hazel gaze. The hunger and possessiveness in those eyes send a bolt of heat through him.

Kurt has to turn away on the pretext of talking to the band just so the audience won’t see the unabashed need on his face. He makes it through the rest of his sets without leaving the stage. He waves imperiously at Mort when it’s time for his tea break.

The bartender brings it to him with a roll of his eyes. “Lover’s tiff?”

“Hardly,” Kurt sniffs. He takes a seat on the piano bench and sips daintily at the cup. He and Mort both know that he’s essentially hiding from Noah, but Kurt can’t explain to himself why he feels the urge to protect himself from the RAF pilot.

The crowd calls for a Christmas song, so Kurt and the band run through all of the Christmas standards that they can remember. Kurt realizes that it’s Christmas Eve and doesn’t know how he avoided thinking about the holiday all day.

When his sets are over, he can’t put off the confrontation any longer.

“You sounded hot tonight,” Noah says as Kurt approaches.

“I, uh . . . thank you,” Kurt flounders. “It’s been a long day and I really want to catch up on some sleep.”

Noah absolutely doesn’t get the hint, but says, “Let me get my kit. I’ll meet you out front.”

“Your what?”

“My gear. We’re on liberty while they get the squad some new planes. Why would I stay with those bastards at the base when I’ve got a perfectly good piece of tail to shack up with?”

Kurt shudders a little in distaste at the description, and reflects that no one in Paris would refer to a potential lover in such terms. But he’s not in Paris anymore, and the world has changed, possibly for the worst. The heat in Noah’s gaze is undeniable. It’s been a long time since Kurt has been able to indulge himself with someone for more than one night, and it’s a small enough luxury, but one that he’ll allow himself.

“They let you just room with any random stranger?” he asks in a last ditch effort to guard himself from Noah’s relentless personality.

“I left word where I’ll be, if they need me. That’s all.”

Kurt walks out to the street and briefly considers fleeing, but Noah doesn’t seem to put any significance on their coupling so Kurt’s retreat would be revealing too much about his state of mind for comfort. He waits, digging his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. Noah joins him after a few moments, slinging an arm around Kurt’s shoulders and carrying a duffle marked as property of 71st Eagle Squadron in his other hand. Kurt finds that Noah knows exactly how to get back to his place as he steers them through the streets, so running would have been particularly foolish.

Back at the flat, Noah tosses his duffle in a corner and Kurt watches him, wondering what Noah’s thinking. The RAF pilot notices the candles on the sideboard though, and turns around with a look on his face that’s so smug that Kurt wants to slap him.

“What’s this?” Noah asks.

“Nothing.”

“Looks like someone tried to set up a menorah.” He pulls his lighter out of his pocket, and flicks it open with a metallic ring, lighting one of the candles. “First night.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “I was just trying to remember how it goes. After you mentioned it.”

“You wanted me to come back.”

“Shut up. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Whatever you say. Well . . . now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”

He spreads his arms – an invitation that Kurt takes before he can talk himself out of it. He pushes Noah to the bed and strips him slowly, paying attention to every inch of skin he reveals. He’s decided to be the aggressor this time, just to regain some of his equilibrium. He finds himself riding Noah’s cock and howling like the worst alley cat. Kurt feels wild, like they’re in some primeval forest, calling down ancient gods with their fucking. Noah goes with it, bucking up into Kurt’s body until they’re both drenched and exhausted.

“It’s Christmas,” Kurt says when they wake up the next morning, feeling like crying over the whole thing. He’ll never admit that he wishes he were back in Ohio, of all places.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Noah agrees. “Lets take that beautiful machine of yours down to the beach.”

“The beach. Are you insane? It’s wintertime.”

“I never saw the ocean until I left Ohio. It’s the most amazing thing I ever dreamed existed.”

“The closest shore is Southend-on-Sea and they call it the _North_ Sea for a reason,” Kurt gripes.

Noah shrugs. “We’ll have it to ourselves then.”

He slaps Kurt’s flank, a stinging blow that leaves Kurt yelping. “Get dressed,” Noah orders.

Grumbling, Kurt pulls on heavy twill trousers, and a fisherman’s sweater he found at a tiny shop in Piccadilly Circus. Noah dons the flying suit that is packed in his duffle.

In the yard, Kurt pulls his driving goggles out of the saddlebag and tugs on the heavy gloves that he uses when he’s running his routes.

“I don’t have a spare pair of goggles,” he tells Noah.

“I have a pair of flying glasses. That should work.” He goes inside and returns with a pair of protective goggles that are remarkably similar to Kurt’s.

“I’m driving,” Noah says, holding out his hands for the key.

Shaking his head, Kurt says, “They drive on the left. It’s a matter of instinct. I’m driving.”

“I always drive.” Noah grips his crotch to emphasize the point.

Kurt ignores the blatant double entendre. “Do you have any idea how rare these are? The factory was destroyed just over a month ago in the Coventry bombing. This is my baby.”

“I told you . . . I can handle any machine in existence.”

Realizing that he isn’t going to win this argument, Kurt relents. “Fine. If you get even a single scratch on her, you will buff them out completely . . . with your tongue.”

Noah waggles his eyebrows, but seems to know what he’s doing when he starts the machine up. It takes a few tries for him to get the hang of the clutch being on the opposite side. Kurt takes his seat behind him, wincing slightly at the treatment of the fine engine.

With a few mishaps that leave Kurt shrieking and clutching Noah’s midsection, they turn north and finally leave the city behind. The ride east passes quickly, although the wind bites at Kurt’s cheeks and he knows he’ll look flushed and windblown when they arrive. He finds he doesn’t care.

Noah is correct . . . between the holiday and the cold, the resort is deserted. They have the whole beach to themselves, not even any die-hard fishermen share the shore with them.

They spend hours at Southend, racing each other across the cold sand, giggling and holding hands. Noah walks down to the tide line and Kurt settles onto the firm strand, watching him. Noah finds pieces of beach glass, tumbled and frosted by the waves and sand. He gathers them in his hands along with sand-smoothed rocks that look like speckled grouse eggs, and gives them to Kurt like they are precious gems.

“Merry Christmas,” he says dropping his treasure into Kurt’s hands.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, pouring the stones through his fingers and watching them catch the low-angled sunlight. Kurt kisses him soundly, tucking his present into the inner pocket of his coat.

Noah sits beside him, gone quiet and still as he stares out over the ever-pouring waves.

“What are you thinking about?” Kurt asks soft-voiced.

“My daughter.”

Kurt keeps the surprise out of his voice. “What’s her name?”

“Beth. Her mother and I . . . we tried, but it just doesn’t work. I’m sure she has no idea where I am.”

“How could you just leave them?”

Noah turns to him and shrugs. “Not like I could tell them I’m off doing something so illegal as fighting for the Tommies.”

Kurt slips his fingers through Noah’s, not caring about the cold anymore. They lean their heads together, acting like they are actually in love. Kurt wonders if the war compresses their lives, stripping every non-essential piece away and accelerating them through weeks and months of living in a mere handful of hours.

When they return to the bedsit, Kurt wants to lick the salt off of Noah’s skin. He shoves the bigger man back on the bed, tongue hunting out Noah’s secret places as he pushes Noah’s clothes aside. He wraps his mouth around Noah’s shaft, tongue twisting around the hardened flesh, hands and mouth working until he tastes salt of a different nature. He gulps eagerly as Noah howls and jerks into his mouth, hands hard on Kurt’s head, keeping him in place.

Kurt doesn’t expect any reciprocation, given Noah’s proclaimed preferences, but Noah works his way down Kurt’s torso with a smirk that rivals his namesake in mischief.

He takes Kurt’s cock into his mouth with an ease that suggests he isn’t a beginner at this either. Once again, Kurt gives himself over to Noah’s hands, content in knowing that his partner will wring as much pleasure as he can from Kurt’s body. Kurt resists the urge to grab Noah’s ears and take control of the pace, but he keeps his hands buried in the sheets, occasionally reaching up to tweak his nipples with harsh fingers.

Noah works him unmercifully with fingers and tongue, and all too soon, Kurt sprays his release into the heat of Noah’s mouth. He falls back panting. Noah doesn’t swallow, but hurries over to the sink to spit his load out. Kurt’s too relaxed to bother complaining about it, but Noah rejoins him, using small little licks to clean off Kurt’s cock, delicate tongue movements that quickly become too much.

“Noah,” Kurt protests tiredly. “Enough. That’s enough. Stop.”

Kurt doesn’t argue as Noah arranges them on the bed, too worn out and pleasantly drained to object to the manhandling. He falls asleep with a little smile on his face.

The morning brings a telegraph runner with a message for Noah. He reads it without expression and then puts it down with a sigh. While he walks around the bedsit, shoving his clothes into his duffle, Kurt reads the yellow piece of paper.

“Kirton-in-Lindsey?”

“Yeah, they’ve delivered a few of the new birds. We’ve got to shake them down and get them flying as soon as possible.”

Lincolnshire isn’t that far from London, but Kurt knows better than to suggest they try to meet up again. Christmas is over and has taken its magic with it. They weren’t ever meant to be more than strangers finding comfort with each other amidst the dangers of war. Travel isn’t terribly easy in any case, and Noah will be off on missions all too soon. Kurt doesn’t think he can bear watching Noah leave over and over again. Once is enough.

Noah looks around the tiny flat, checking for anything he may have left. Kurt leans awkwardly against the bed, wishing they were still wrapped up in each other, hidden under the covers from the rest of the world.

“I think that’s everything,” Noah says, slinging the straps of his bag over his shoulders.

“We got word . . . in Paris,” Kurt says. “That the Nazis are putting pink triangles on gay men and shipping them off to the camps.”

Noah nods. “Just another reason why they have to be stopped.”

“Take out a few Jerrys for me, would you?” Kurt asks.

“I will.”

“Okay, good,” Kurt swallows. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Maybe you could think about me every so often,” Noah suggests.

“Maybe. I’m not going to pine for you though. I’m going to sleep with every man who crosses my path.”

Noah laughs. “Of course you are. I’ll look you up when the war’s over.”

Kurt doesn’t say anything about how desperately he wishes that could happen. Instead he says, “I’m not going to pin my hopes on a man with the most dangerous job in the world.”

But he wraps his arms around Noah’s shoulders, clinging to his strong body. Noah returns the embrace, holding Kurt tightly.

“Be seeing you,” he says and then turns to leave. The door closes behind him with a thump.

Kurt leans against the door and stares blankly around his flat, wondering how the whole world got to be in such a mess.

A few days later, Kurt finds a wicker basket at the flea market on Portobello Road. He sets the basket in the windowsill with the beach glass and speckled rocks inside it. The weak winter sunlight catches them in the afternoon, making the collection look like drowned jewels.

He doesn’t read casualty lists.

 _Don't know when  
But I know we'll meet again some sunny day  
Keep smiling through,  
Just like you always do  
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away _

Kurt croons into the microphone and tries not to think about the battles going on in the skies overhead as he sings. He prays to a God that he’s not sure he believes in anymore for the Americans to enter the war as soon as possible. He pretends that it isn’t because he needs a particular RAF pilot to come back safely.


End file.
